#edlenor

Stretching out his back, Edlenor relaxed in the chair in the darkest corner of the tavern. The lighting wasn’t on purpose, it simply was the farthest seat away from the rest of the patrons. There he waved over the closest bar maid and ordered himself a drink. He didn’t have any money, but that was a problem he could sort out later. For now he just wanted to put his feet up and relax.

Placing his bow and quiver on the table, he examined his possessions. The only material things he cared about, his bow and a select few arrows were the few things he would never give up. For Edlenor, they possibly meant more than his life. One arrow forged from the hottest fire, one built to withstand the coldest temperatures, and one... There was supposed to be a third special arrow made of Old World material that’s path was truer than any other, but it was missing. Jaw dropping slightly as his eyes widened and anger overtook him, Edlenor knew exactly where it was. That bastard who had captured him had separated it from the rest.

“Fuck.” He was going to have to go back. What would seemed senseless to some was a choice that didn’t even require a second thought for the brash elf. Requipping his things Edlenor trudge out of the bar, pissed off and ready for blood. If he was being totally honest with himself though, he was always ready for blood.

Night had just about fallen when he reached the building again. Scaling the wall as if he were a child climbing a tree, the guards had no idea what was coming when he reached the top. Silently piercing each of their windpipes with arrows quicker than they could imagine, Edlenor had them all out within seconds. Smiling to himself, it was too easy. The people they had hired to capture him were significantly more skilled, perhaps they should have hired them to guard the building as well.

Slipping back inside, Edlenor cloaked himself in darkness as he trapped from shadow to shadow. Up until now everything had been procedure, just another day at the office for him. But now, now he was entering uncharted territory. He had no idea which halls lead where and where the main room was. He knew how to get out, but only from the way he came. The other exits he could only guess at.

Entering a hall filled entirely with darkness, at the end he could hear a faint cry. That’s when the biggest fight of the evening so far broke out, and it was completely internal. Should he save whatever was crying or shouldn’t he? After a small war with blood spilled on both sides, he sprinted down the stone hallway and used magick to open the lock. Edlenor wanted to think he did it because it was the logical, strategic move, creating a distraction while he looked for his arrow. However, deep down that would never be the reason. The elf always did have a soft spot for injustice, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

Peering inside, he saw a small, slender figure bound in chains. Her hair matted in random places with pieces of skin missing, just look at her felt sore. It was probably what he looked like earlier that day when he was captive, however, thanks to a few spells he was as good as new now.

“Come on.” he ordered her. Even when rescuing people he refused to enjoy interaction. “I’m not fucking waiting forever.” As the girl rose he released her from her chains. A simple utterance and a flick of his wrist was all it took, again too simple. That’s when the challenge finally came. Like a stampede, the guards charged down the hallway. Edlenor didn’t even need to look to know it would be just a few too many for him alone. Or at least for him to take alone easily.

His toes scraped to the bone, Edlenor left a faint blood trail as he was dragged from the cell. Days, weeks, months - he had no idea how long he had been in there. It was all the blink of an eye to him though. Ten years and the captivity still would have seemed like nothing. As the hands around his arms dragged him up the stairs he could feel them growing weak. Their grip loosened only for their nails to dig in deeper. It would be easy enough to kill them once they reached the surface.

The sunlight hit his face all at once, he wasn’t going to catch a break today it seemed. Blinking his eyes rapidly trying to adjust to his new surroundings, from what he could tell they were in a courtyard. He had no idea if there were people around, but regardless he wasn’t going to wait any longer. Muttering a few words quickly under his breath his chains clicked open. The sound was overshadowed by the clinking and clanging of the links as they walked, so it wasn’t even noticeable. Gathering all his strength into one, single action, Edlenor flung his arms outwards and cast both his captors to the ground.

Palms, open, he waited for his daggers’ hilts to fly into his hands with a passive expression on his face. Battle was relaxing for him. It only took a few seconds for the blades to find their way to their owner. A large smile cracked on his face as his fingers wrapped around the familiar material. “Here we go.” A flick of his wrist here, a little toss there, all seven of them were out of the world in a flash.

It was too easy. Sadly it would have been even easier if he had his bow. That was his real prized possession. The only thing elvish that he actually like, Edlenor valued his bow above all else. His clothes and money they could keep, but he was going to have to get his bow back before he left. Racing through the building that he had risen from, his bow was slightly more difficult but it still wasn’t a challenge.

As the ever oppressive curtain of night forced the evening to settle into the streets of Leeds, those paths, in turn, grew more lively. There was hardly another province on the island of Athoria that was quite like it, but much the same could be said for the island itself compared to the vast continents composing the rest of the earth, especially when consideration was given to the entirety of the country’s hodgepodge assemblage of preternatural personifications. The juxtaposition of curious and confounding, rare and renowned, divine and demonic seemed to be at home for the crooked city raised inside the isolated shores of its mother's wicked womb; it was another facet which shone on the small gem of a country that was suspended in the crown of the earth, chiseled from an unknown ore whose expert cut cast a pattern of phantasmagoric scintilla for each circle around the sun. Indeed, Leeds was alive in a single breath, fetid creations emerging from their devil's dens to sate abundant calls of cavorting for various consorting that were usually partaken of on a more horizontal plane. Nightstalkers slinked and ne'er-do-wells slunk with their minds in the gutters and a tingling in their palms. Their footsteps intent was to remedy an itch that only greasy fingers could, but even in that sea of slop that had leaked from betwixt the treacherous cracks of noisome confines not all was what it seemed. That night, an angel strode those cobblestone streets ill with the spread of their infectious shadows.

A point of curiosity for those that passed him by, the celestial being was certainly a sight to behold. His narrow yet monolithic frame walked with long steps that dare not disturb the train of robe that trailed in the detritus behind, midnight velvet flecked and glimmering like a blanket of stars. His shoulders were draped with cascading black, neck circled with loose hanging loops of red string and golden strand knotted at intervals with crosses and charms, sparkling medals and slick-polished beads catching flashes of light like a demented rosary belonging to he who was unequivocally devout. The length of his hair, long and straight, framed an exquisite set of cheekbones with various memento mori; small bones – the mandibles of mink, hollowed vertebrae of weasel – were scattered in that silken curtain of strands. He, too, walked with a purpose that bore a negligible degree of innocence, but it was one that wouldn't quite see itself through to competition just yet.

Clutched in a hand that hung at his side was a small purse more suited for coins than its actual contents. The closure was puckered by a pair of strings that failed to divulge any details, but judging from the cloth's exterior – grainy and gilt and glimmering with each passing glare from the windowshine of firelit abodes beyond the corridors he walked – the interior’s assortment, if not gold, should’ve been, by any half-brained theory of relation, worth at least something. The way the satchel swung in carefree rhythm with the man’s long steps was practically an invitation.

It was well known that danger was a condition that was always present in Leeds, and in current conditions the obfuscation of the night only seemed to exacerbate that truth. The peering eyes of passersby always took note of wealth, however it was the perception of ‘easy pickings’ that would force a snake in wait to strike. In truth, the angel didn't look like he was much of a fighter. Anyone who was well-acquainted with him and his death-centric existence would know it was better to assume there was simply a skeleton under those robes from the way they hung rather than the skin and offal cluttered aspic that made a human whole and functional. It was that unfortunate assumption of lack of skill upon which a young pickpocket's bets would rest and wind up being... wrong.

As a dastardly hand, swift and sure, extended to make the snatch, it was met with a firm grip around the wrist. The angel’s eyes fell upon those of a mere child whose confidence instantly cowered and from his lips fell a concise castigation in the form of a single uttered syllable: “No.” Though the surrounding scoundrels scattered like the infestation of vermin that they were, there was no need for the child because there was no escape; the angel and the boy, in an instant, had disappeared.

Miles away, a good night’s walk to the south west of the city from which they vanished, the pair reappeared in the thick of a lonely patch of forest, disrupting a small selection dusk-dining swallows who devoured the ousted insects of the hour. The child found himself without stable ground to lay his feet upon, white knuckles belonging to small hands clutching a secluded upper branch of an antiquated oak tree from which he feared he’d fall. Dru loomed beside, comfortably perched with purse in hand, adroit legs supporting his lithe form atop the same wooden limb.

“Your moral compass is misaligned, torn by the false stars of a trickster’s sky. Are you so devoid of direction that you must resort to petty thievery to fill your mortal needs? This purse is nothing but the pulled teeth of murdered men. Tell me child, do you wish the burden of their pain upon yourself? Do you hunger to vicariously absorb the brutality of their deaths and the wrath of their ghosts?” Dru’s sights had been focused down upon the wriggling form of the boy, but in a moment of distraction snapped up to catch a glimpse of the moonlit whites of a third pair of eyes. With a barely perceptible narrowing of his own, an almost incomprehensible curl from the corners of his lips culminated an expression that implored the stranger entertain the ruse that was to follow. The angel’s voice was dire when he spoke again.

Micah grimaced as the rain beat down on his back. All he wanted was to get some sleep, but the streets of Chile Village were providing him little cover from the constant rainfall. Right now was a moment he wished his house was done being built or that he could lose his pride long enough to go to the one of the Bloodhawk’s dwellings for the night. But despite Beau’s home being a short walk away, he continued to sit on the earth being soaked by the rain. Though he hoped for sleep to fall upon him, it wouldn’t come easily. He grumbled, standing up from his corner, looking at the dead streets around him. People were usually around in Chile at this hour, but not with the rain. Even the beggars had made their way into pubs. Micah was the only stubborn on left that he could see on this stretch of street. He slung his bag over his shoulder, turning towards Hallowed Oak. Sure his house wasn’t done being built, but he figured it would provide him more comfort to be beside it than it would to rest beside a low grade inn in Chile Village. He missed the sensation of a home, his heart hurt with longing for family. 

His bare feet soaked into the damp earth beneath them as he walked. He was worried between the dark and the increasingly heavy rainfall that he wouldn’t be able to find his home. He strained his eyes as the trees blurred together, his heart racing as panic built. What if he was left stranded somewhere in Hallowed Oak to die and never got to see his house again? Micah’s brain took over his body, ripping a scream through his vocal chords as it threw at him all the terrors that could happen to him. His sleep deprived body burst into a rapid flurry of movement as he ran through the woods, trying his hardest to avoid obstacles. “Home. I’ve got to get home” he muttered to himself as he ran in what he hoped was the right direction. He tripped over a fallen branch in his haste, hitting the muddy ground with a thud, only then realizing that tears coated his cheeks.